Detention, with Poems
by Bottlebrush
Summary: The Marauders are in detention, and have been set a challenging task: to write a poem.


Title: Detention, with Poems

Rating: K+, two lines of coarse language

Summary: All four Marauders are in detention, and are given a challenging task: to write a poem.

Often, it was just James and Sirius who were caught wrongdoing. Sometimes, Remus or Peter joined them. This time, it was all four.

I suspect ffnet is going to insert an extra line between each line of the verses. There is nothing I can do about that.

The prank had been James's idea originally – or was it Sirius's? No matter. One or other of them had worked out how to turn porridge into maggots, and thought it would be nice to apply this treatment to the Slytherins' breakfast. They had recently discovered that the kitchen elves prepared food on five separate tables – for the professors, and each House – and had succeeded in identifying the table on which the food destined for the Slytherins was set out. That valuable intelligence could not be allowed to go to waste, could it?

Remus convinced his friends that their purpose would be served equally well by making the porridge _look_ like maggots, instead of actually _being_ maggots. Their initial reluctance to accept this amendment persuaded Remus that he had to accompany them on their kitchen expedition, as he did not trust them not to revert to the original plan in his absence. Peter went along as look-out.

The elves were so used to seeing the Marauders invade their kitchen at all hours of the day and night that they took little notice when the three appeared there one morning just before breakfast and stood around the Slytherin table, apparently deep in discussion. It turned out that the spell to make porridge look like maggots was more difficult and complicated than the one to turn porridge into maggots, and Remus was having a hard time getting the others to stick to his revised, hygiene-conscious, plan.

Meanwhile, Peter was struck by an idea so brilliant that he had to abandon his look-out post to go and tell the others – why not, he suggested, charm the porridge so that it looked like maggots only when seen from directly above, but not from an angle? That way, each Slytherin would think his own plate of porridge was the only one that had turned into maggots, and all the others were mocking him when they said theirs had. This would cause them to argue and fight among themselves, and with any luck would land the whole House in detention.

All agreed this was a good scheme in theory, but could they carry it out? The spell work needed turned out to be more precise and fiddly than any of them had expected, and time was getting short; soon, the elves would send the food up to the Great Hall and it would be too late. The animal sitting on the table looking at them didn't help.

"I wish it would stop staring at us, it's putting me off," Peter grumbled.

"It's only a cat," said James.

"Cats aren't allowed in the kitchen," said Sirius. "The elves have powerful spells to keep them out. So that must be…. oh."

As one, they turned to flee, but too late. McGonagall, transformed into professor-shape, stood blocking their way, smiling grimly.

******

"I could not believe my ears when I heard what you were planning to do," McGonagall harangued the Marauders in her office that evening. "That even you could imagine something so disgusting, so repulsive, so _evil_, beggars belief. Words fail me."

The Marauders forbore to point out that she had already found three words, and could doubtless come up with more if she put her mind to it. What they didn't know was that maggots held a peculiar horror for McGonagall, ever since the spectacular failure of the Preserving Charm she had placed on her family's Burns Night haggis back in 1957.

"I will make the punishment fit the crime," McGonagall went on. "You have shown yourselves to be coarse, vulgar guttersnipes. You will redeem yourselves by doing something cultured and refined, and, it's to be hoped, creating something of beauty. I will leave you here for an hour, and you will each write a poem, on the subject of…. flowers. Points may be awarded if I think they are deserved."

She swept out of the room, leaving four Marauders with four pieces of parchment. Sirius picked up his quill. "Easy peasy," he said cheerfully, and began writing. James looked up at the ceiling, a slow smile spread over his face, and he too began writing. Remus and Peter frowned in concentration, until Peter started to write.

******

"All done?" Sirius asked. "She'll be back shortly. Want to hear mine? 'How to make an old witch come, Stick a thistle up her bum'."

Peter paled visibly, and his already round eyes grew bigger and rounder. "Pads, you _didn't_," he whispered.

"Ha, gotcha! Course I didn't. I'm not quite ready to die yet. No, I wrote a nice proper poem, cultured and refined like she said, on a floral theme. She'll love it. Here she is now."

McGonagall gazed at the four earnest, penitent faces before her. "I hope you've had enough time to reflect on the revolting nature of what you intended to do, and have made amends by searching your souls for the traces of decency which I'm sure you all have within you," she said, not looking nearly as sure as she sounded. "You first, Mr Black. Read your poem to us."

Sirius stood up, parchment in hand, and read:

"I have foxgloves in my garden, beware.

And bright laburnum, and hemlock tall.

Nightshades black and red, and by the gate

Mine ancient yew tree, looming over all."

"All these plants are poisonous," McGonagall observed.

"Yes, that's the point," replied Sirius.

"A touch morbid, don't you think?"

Sirius smiled.

"Ah well, you are a Black, one must make allowances. Quite a creditable effort, considering. Ten points to Gryffindor."

Sirius sat down, still smiling.

"You next, Mr Pettigrew."

Peter stood up and read:

"Come, lovely rose,

I place you to my nose.

In the pollen goes.

Food for the bee,

Hay fever for me."

"I didn't know you suffered from hay fever, Mr Pettigrew?"

"I don't. It was poetic licence."

"Are you being cheeky, Pettigrew?"

"No, professor."

"Hmm. Well, you show enough familiarity with at least one Muggle poem to attempt to parody it, I'll give you that. And the rhymes are good. Five points to Gryffindor."

Peter sat down.

"Let's have yours now, Mr Potter."

James stood, with a confident grin.

"Roses are red, violets are blue,

Rosier's face belongs in a zoo."

McGonagall's expression darkened. "Do you call that a poem?" she demanded.

"Yes, I worked hard on it too," James said. "I really wanted to make it Snape's face, naturally, but that didn't fit the metre, it hasn't enough syllables, and I wanted to get it right, you know? So I thought of Rosier, because it sort of echoes the roses in the first line, and that's kind of poetic."

"No, it is not," said McGonagall. "And when I tell you to write a poem, I do not expect two lines of infantile doggerel, one of which you didn't even write yourself. Nor do I expect a detention task to be made an opportunity for insulting a schoolfellow. Five points from Gryffindor."

James opened his mouth as if to protest, thought better of it, and sat down.

"Now you, Mr Lupin."

Remus stood up, smiling nervously, and said "Violets are not blue, they're violet."

"Quite so, Mr Lupin, now may we have your poem?"

"That was it."

"That was one line of prose. It was not a poem."

"Ah, well, I don't really do poetry. I mean I can't. But what I said was true. You only have to look at a violet. And roses aren't necessarily red, they can be yellow, or pink, or white, or you could charm them to be any colour you want…."

"Spare us the botanical observations, Mr Lupin, this is not a Herbology class. Are you telling me you failed to carry out your task?"

"Um, I suppose so. But as Keats said, 'Beauty is truth, truth, beauty' so…."

"Nonsense," McGonagall snapped. "Romantic twaddle. There are many truths in this world which are far from beautiful, and much of beauty is fantasy. Ten points from Gryffindor for not even trying. I am disappointed in you, Mr Lupin, I expected better. I can't really say the same for the rest of you. You may go."

Back in the common room, Peter said accusingly "You two lost all the points we won."

"Doesn't matter," Sirius said. "We broke even, that's okay."

"Yes," James agreed, "don't feel bad because you can't write poetry, Moony. That's not something you can learn, it's a gift, you've either got it or you haven't." His smug expression made it clear that, despite McGonagall's dismissal of his efforts, James believed he himself had the gift. Remus flashed his trademark grateful smile, his hand in his pocket fingering the piece of parchment bearing his real poem, the one that would never be shown to anyone, least of all McGonagall; the one that had nothing to do with flowers, and everything to do with Sirius Black. He would Vanish the parchment later, he decided, because he knew the poem by heart.

_You are brighter than the radiant star whose name you hold,_

_Nobler than the ancient House from which you spring,_

_Braver than the warrior kings who fought of old,_

_Gentler than the touch of a moth's brown dusty wing,_

_Fiercer than the lightning ripping through the sky,_

_As loving as an angel swooping from on high._

He wasn't entirely happy with the last line; "swooping" had the right meaning but the wrong sound, and "on high" was a terrible cliché. Overall, the metre was a bit fractured, but the rhymes were right. Briefly he wondered if, had he dared to read it (but he never would, never) it might have gained any points for Gryffindor. He suspected it would not.


End file.
